'A Christmas Cruel' or 'Food for Thought'

The approach of Christmas does two things to me: it makes me want to shut myself away and await the 'All Clear' and also gives me time to remember Auntie Alice.

Auntie Alice was the kind of person many would call 'The salt of the earth.' If any member of the family was in need of anything, she'd be there with a smile and a helping hand; if a shoulder was needed to cry on, they could have one of hers. She was also a born diplomat and whenever hackles were raised it was her hand that would soothe the savage beast.

Life in the East End of London in the 1930s was not easy, and was particularly hard for mothers struggling to feed and clothe a family on the meagre pittance brought home by their husbands. The honest ones, that is, and there were many of them, even in an area with a reputation for housing some of London's worst.

My mother was one of those women who scrimped and scraped and always managed to have food on the table, even if it was sometimes only a slice of bread, spread with dripping - the solidified fat that ran off the Sunday roast. We always had beef on Sunday. It was cheap. Only the wealthy could afford the luxury of chicken, except at Christmas, when a nice plump bird would become affordable if you were lucky enough to get one being sold off at half price when the meat market closed late on Christmas Eve.

Christmas always meant a full house at our home, or my grandparents' home, which alternated as venue for the feast of the year. Although my parents were eventually to have three sons, I was the only child in the entire extended family for the first 6 years of my life; it was only later that a baby boom descended on my father's eight siblings and my mother's numerous cousins. During those early years I was an only child and at Christmas I learned the meaning of the saying 'alone in a crowd.' Mother was extremely house-proud, She had to be: in London generally, and more so in areas close to the docks, where so much of the nation's food such as meat, grain and sugar was imported in sacks which spilt and spilt their contents, rats greatly outnumbered the human population. My mother, like so many others, had to spend her waking hours keeping the house clean to make it less attractive to the invasive rodents. Allowing a young child to run around, making things untidy, would be intolerable.

I can vividly remember three main rules of behaviour from my childhood. There were many more, but those never far from the front of my mind are: 'Children should be seen and not heard', 'Mother knows best' and 'Don't argue!' To help me abide by the first rule, a neatly folded blanket was kept in the corner of the living room. It was my 'play blanket'; it was where I could sit, and be watched by my mother, and play in peace as long as I didn't make a noise or interrupt the grown-ups with stupid questions.

At Christmas I had a special dispensation. It was, after all, a season of goodwill and I was permitted to mingle with the grown-ups for a while, to stand on a chair a show the assembled company the new clothes my mother had lovingly knitted or sewn for me as a Christmas present, before changing into my 'play clothes' and retiring to the corner where I could play with my other presents: a tin whistle, perhaps, from Uncle Bill, a drum from Uncle Hubert and Auntie Floss (as long as I didn't make a noise!), a pea-shooter from Uncle Albert, a pop-gun which shot a cork attached to a piece of string, and numerous 'young smokers' kits consisting of sugar cigarettes and sometimes a liquorice pipe or a chocolate cigar. They knew how to prepare children for adult life in those days. Needless to say, the musical instruments and weapons were confiscated as soon as the guests left the house, but the introduction to the manly pastime of smoking was encouraged.

But I digress, and must bring Auntie Alice back into the story.

We were all - about 12 of us - packed one Christmas around a table which would comfortably have seated six. Auntie Alice was to my immediate right and Mother had finished bustling to and from the kitchen, and had taken her seat at the head of the table after placing food-laden plates in front of everybody. Everybody, that is, except one. In the confusion of that overloaded table I had been overlooked. I quietly nudged Auntie Alice to attract her attention and the dear lady in her usual diplomatic fashion, instead of pointing out my mother's error, turned to me and asked, loudly, 'What's the matter, love? Do you want me to pass the salt?' Mother took the hint and quickly produced my plate, but could not resist whispering in my ear something like 'If you ever try to show me up like that again . . .'

The story was repeated ad nauseam on subsequent family occasions to demonstrate how well I had been brought up: the legend of a little boy who asked for the salt, rather than cause a fuss.

Mother could not tolerate anything less than perfection. She worked hard for her family and any perceived shortcoming was seen as a serious criticism of her management. Gravy and custard were her betes noires: she would often approach the table with a jug of gravy or custard in one hand, a spoon in the other and a worried expression on her face.

'Oh dear, it's got lumps in it; that's never happened before,' she would announce, to the amusement of all present, until one fateful Christmas when the family could hide their amusement no longer. 'Do you want some gravy?' she asked Uncle Hubert, her much loved elder brother, and he jokingly replied, 'Just two lumps please, Sis.' Others around the table smilingly muttered, 'Lumps? That's never happened before!' but the joke was lost on Mother, who felt that she had been critically wounded.

Family Christmases were something to be remembered, but for the wrong reasons. I'll pretend Christmas isn't going to happen this year. What if somebody asks me to pass the salt, and the memories come flooding back, and dear Auntie Alice, the salt of the earth, is no longer there to comfort me? I might, as the saying goes, end up with custard on my face - like it or lump it.

by Arthur Loosley

No Lumps Gravy Recipe